Scar Tissue
by Jules Ink
Summary: Oliver Queen didn't care much for irony. Or sarcasm for that matter. But even Oliver couldn't deny the irony of his actions—of his fixation, really. [One-shot set post 3.23]


This is just a little something that somehow popped up and that I needed to get out. If you follow me on Tumblr you might know it already, because I put it out there for the MTV-reblogging madness. But **Albiona** urged me to post it here, too. And since she's the smart one in our creative writing unison I do as she says. [In a unrelated note: there'll be more of the Vegas-fic soon.] I hope you enjoy.

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Oliver Queen didn't care much for irony. Or sarcasm for that matter. He never got the hang of the latter (he left that area of expertise solely to his girlfriend) and he never managed to appreciate the former.

But even Oliver couldn't deny the irony of his actions—of his fixation, really. And as much as he didn't appreciate it, he also couldn't _stop it._

His fingertips ghosted over her skin, trailing up her arm in a tender caress. His eyes closed, he enjoyed the peaceful quiet, only disturbed by the waves crushing against the shore and crickets calling outside. The wind carried the sounds in through the open window and brushed over their naked bodies, cooling the sweat covering them. The afterglow of sex surrounded them, left them both in that lethargic state of utter satisfaction as the reminders of bliss slowly dissolved.

He was at ease in a way he couldn't ever remember being. He was in the moment, in the here and now, relaxed and happy, and there was nowhere else he'd rather be than in this little house by the beach. Resting on his back, he lay in bed, the woman he loved curling against his body, her head on his chest, one arm draped over his stomach. And it was this arm his fingertips traveled up and down, nearly absentmindedly. It was a relaxing gesture as they lay there, lost in their own thoughts, enjoying the simplicity of this moment.

Her skin was soft and warm under his fingertips, like flawless silk. And it was this thought that caused his hand to wander higher, to her upper arm and on to her shoulder. His index and middle finger slid over her shoulder blade, circling it, before continuing their journey—and then he was there, at the destination he hadn't consciously set out to reach. But somehow his hand always ended up at the only mark on her otherwise flawless skin.

Felicity's scar.

Scar—singular. Felicity only had one (he honestly thought the ones in her mouth from getting her wisdom teeth removed didn't count) and it was like his fingers were pulled to it. Ever since the first time he had felt the slightly rougher skin, he couldn't help but touch it, he was just so very aware of it.

Oliver could acknowledge how ironic that was, considering the much more gruesome marks on his own body—and considering how thankful he was that Felicity didn't fuss over them. The new branding on his back, the scar where Ra's al Ghul had pushed a sword through his body, the scar reminding them of the night he had nearly been killed by his mother—none of those ugly things seemed to bother Felicity. She accepted them, probably simply considered them part of him, and he was grateful for that. He wished he could do the same with her scar. But he couldn't. Because this shouldn't be a part of her.

He didn't even know where this fixation came from. He had seen the scar before, he had always known it was there. It was right there on her back, on her shoulder and depending on what Felicity wore it had always been perfectly visible. But now that he had touched it, it suddenly felt more real.

A very real proof that she had been hurt.

It wasn't the scar that bothered him, not really. Sara had done a good job that night when she had sewn her up in the Foundry. The wound had healed nicely.

What bothered him had come before that: she had been wounded.

Feeling the scar tissue, the full realization what that meant crashed down on him. She had been shot, because she had been out in the field, where she shouldn't have been. And she had been there, in that damn bank, because Oliver had been… careless, insensitive, selfish….

He had been a massive dick.

After spending the previous months watching Felicity with Palmer, after the months Oliver had spent with his heart filled with jealous longing, he could imagine how she had felt, seeing him and Sara together, connecting over something Felicity wasn't, couldn't be a part of. For Sara and Oliver it had been fighting, for Felicity and Ray it was tech-stuff—the thing they shared and could bond over, excluding all others.

Back then – was it really only one and a half years ago? It sure felt longer than that – he hadn't even seen it. It had taken John to mention it, to tell Oliver that Felicity felt "a little left out".

Considering how he had felt over the past five months – had it really only been that short? It had sure felt longer than that – "a little left out" seemed very generous.

Going into the field without back-up had been reckless and stupid. He didn't regret telling Felicity that in very clear terms, but he regretted making her doubt his loyalty to her. He regretted not telling her sooner that she would always have a place in his heart. He regretted behaving in a way that made his so very brilliant girl do something so recklessly stupid. That was something he was very much to blame for. This mark on her flawless body was—

"It's not your fault."

Her voice coming from his chest ripped him out of his thoughts. Startled, he craned his neck to look at her, wondering if he had adopted her habit of voicing thoughts without recognizing it.

She shifted her weight and raised her upper body so that she could look at him, causing his fingers to fall from her back and the scar he had traced without noticing. "Don't look so surprised," she said. "I waited for two months for you to say something. I let you feel up my scar for two months. That's enough."

He swallowed thickly, his throat feeling unexpectedly dry. "But it is my fault."

"Thank God," she breathed and he couldn't help but frown at her in question. She looked a little sheepish. "I hoped that this was another one of your guilt-trips. The alternative was you hating the scar because it's ugly. I didn't really think so, but I kind of got into my own head after the first few weeks, but then I reasoned that you probably wouldn't keep touching it, if you did. I contemplated you having a weird fetish for a while, but that felt even more unrealistic."

He couldn't keep from smiling. "I promise: no weird scar fetish."

She tipped her head at him, unimpressed. "But the self-blame-game again? _Seriously_?"

The smile died on his face. "If I'd handled this whole thing better you wouldn't have been hurt."

Her eyes rested on him for another long moment, thinking. With the air of a decision being made she sat up next to him, meeting his gaze. "I know you'll hate what I'll say next, but… I like my scar."

She was right, he didn't like it. Much the opposite, he felt annoyance gather within him and it vibrated in his voice as he challenged, "Because it's a battle trophy?!"

"No," she said, hesitated, and seeing his doubtful eyes she admitted, "Maybe a little. But mostly because… it reminds me of Sara. That night…." She waved her hand in a nearly dismissive gesture when she continued, "I know I was stupid and reckless and all that." He pressed his lips together, because: that _woman_! "But Sara and I…. Something changed between us after that. I think we understood each other better, she stopped dismissing me and I stopped feeling so very threatened by her. Because of that night we could become friends. The scar reminds me of that; reminds me of her. And I know your scars are mostly things you want to forget. But this is different for me."

From his laying position he looked up at her, studying her even face and the sincerity visible on it.

The barest smile danced around the corners of her mouth, but, still, authority rang in her voice. "So, stop brooding."

Inhaling soundly, he looked at her for a while, then he gave her a nod. The look on her face told her that she interpreted the gesture as the answer it was supposed to be: _I'll try_. Because that was really all he could do—the scar it could never resemble a good memory for him, but he could accept that it was for her, that she looked at scars differently than he did since their experiences with them differed so immensely. Reaching up, he tugged a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, only to let the back of his hand caress her cheek. "I wish you had something else to remember Sara by."

"Oh," she said, finally granting him a real smile, "I have. Sara knitted me a scarf."

Oliver blinked up at his girlfriend. "She, _what_?"

"I know. She said knitting relaxes her. And that she's simply good with pointy things—which I swear didn't seem so double-meaningful when she said it… which is kind of ironic, if you think about it."

"I don't care much for irony."

"Really?!" She shook her head in mock shock, her blonde hair flowing around her face. "I did _not_ know that!"

Or sarcasm. But he very much cared for her.


End file.
